The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds: An Isabel Dalhousie Novel (9) by Alexander McCall Smith

tragic as that which sees Mimi out in
La bohème
! Can that be right, or is there something here that needs to be considered by a social
     psychologist?”
    Isabel looked up. Eddie was leading a young woman to her table. She thought:
the Huntress
, and then corrected herself. Not the Huntress; not the Huntress. Diane, plain and
     simple; Diane.
    “This is Diane.”
    Isabel folded the paper and stood up to greet her visitor.
    Eddie, who was clearly nervous, announced that he would bring two cups of tea. “Diane
     doesn’t drink very much coffee, do you, Diane?”
    “No,” said Diane. “I don’t.”
    “Too much coffee is bad for you,” said Eddie.
    “Everything in moderation,” continued Isabel.
    “In what?” asked Eddie nervously.
    They were still standing, and Isabel gestured for Diane to sit down. “In moderation,”
     she said to Eddie.
    He nodded and went off behind the counter. Isabel noticed that Diane’s eyes followed
     him. Yes, she thought, she loves him. I’ve seen the answer Eddie wanted.
    “I’m really pleased that I’m getting the chance to meet you,” said Isabel. “I’m very
     fond of Eddie.”
    She discreetly studied Diane as she spoke. Twenty-six was about right, she thought.
     And she’s rather attractive in a slightly bony sort of way. Too thin? One had to be
     aware of that because so many people were anorexic now. Eddie himself was thin, though,
     and he definitely did not have an eating disorder, whatever other problems he might
     have. He ate rather a lot, in fact; he was always nibbling on the shavings from blocks
     of Parmesan or on scraps of ham or salami.
    “He’s very fond of you too,” said Diane.
    They were both silent for a moment. “What do you do?” asked Isabel.
    “I’m a nurse,” said Diane. “But now I’m studying to be a physiotherapist. I’ve got
     two years to go.”
    “They’ll go very quickly,” said Isabel.
    “I think so,” said Diane.
    There was a further silence.
    “Eddie tells me that you and he are planning to share,” said Isabel.
To share
sounded better than
to live together
, she felt. It was not suggestive of anything beyond simple cohabitation, and sounded
     less prying as a result.
    Diane said that this was their plan. “But …” Her voice trailed off.
    Isabel waited.
    “But I don’t really see how we can.”
    “Why?”
    “Money,” she said simply. “We can’t afford it. A flat costs at least eight hundred
     a month for a one-bedroom place. Usually more. Often a thousand.”
    “It’s expensive,” agreed Isabel. She was out of touch; she had thought three or four
     hundred was about right.
    “And there’s something else,” Diane went on. “My parents are dead against it.”
    Isabel raised an eyebrow. “But you’re twenty …”
    “Twenty-six,” supplied Diane. “Yes. And Eddie’s …”
    Isabel held her breath.
    “Twenty-one,” said Diane.
    Isabel stared at her. She was taken aback, but now she made up her mind very quickly:
     this was her chance to defuse the situation for Eddie. “Eddie sometimes likes to think
     he’s twenty-four,” she said. “I suppose it’s because he’d like to be twenty-four and
     sometimes we—”
    “Sometimes we make things up,” said Diane. She explained. “I know somebody who was
     in his year at school. That’s how I realised.” She shrugged. “I understand. I really
     do. I remember wanting to be older than I was. I really did. So, don’t worry.”
    “He wants to tell you, you know,” whispered Isabel. “Make it easy for him.”
    “I will,” said Diane. “Of course I will.”
    Isabel felt a surge of affection rise within her. She liked this young woman. She
     was just right for Eddie. She loved him,and she was straightforward and sensible. She was exactly what Eddie needed.
    “Your parents?” prompted Isabel.
    Diane looked apologetic. “I live with them at the moment,” she said. “They live here
     in Edinburgh, in Murrayfield. They’ve got this large